


Us v. Them

by K_Hanna_Korossy



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 05:40:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5816302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/K_Hanna_Korossy/pseuds/K_Hanna_Korossy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tag to "Warriors." It's hard to go from "me" to "us"...but there are definite rewards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Us v. Them

 

First published in  _Sensory Overload 4_ (1999)

 

There was silence, and then there was silence. Usually at least one of them was talking. Blair would run on about whatever it was he ran on about, often something so obscure, Jim Ellison almost wondered if he’d made it up. Or Jim would be trying to teach his young partner something, being the voice of reason even if reason and Sandburg were not well acquainted. Sometimes they were even mad at each other and charged silence filled the truck. But it was never like this.

“Janet’s funeral is the day after tomorrow. I talked to her parents this morning.” Sandburg’s voice, like his body language, was resigned, empty of life.

In all the tumult since, Jim had nearly forgotten about Janet Myers. Or that Blair had lost an old friend. “Yeah?” he said, not really knowing what to say, not knowing why Sandburg had even said it except to fill that terrible quiet. Automatically he added, “You going?”

More silence. Not wanting to care but unable to help it, Ellison started paying attention to what his senses were already telling him about the younger man in the passenger seat next to him, about the too-fast heartbeat, the hitches in his breathing and the slightly higher degree of temperature from agitation.

He didn’t want to put himself in Sandburg’s shoes because...well, too much hurt already for him to consider what his young Guide was going through, let alone the grief that Jim himself had laid on the kid. It was easier just to let the silence accumulate and thicken, until it nearly choked.

Finally, very softly, Blair answered. “I don’t know.”

That was worse than the silence. Jim gave up before they got any deeper, not wanting to think about that reply.  

The loft mercifully came into view--his view, anyway--a good mile down the road, and as anxious as Jim had been to get out of the station and go home, he found his foot letting up on the gas now, suddenly not so much in a hurry. The hours of paperwork, of tying up loose ends on Cyclops Oil, the Chopec tribesmen’s “visit” to Cascade, and an impressive chase and shootout on the street, had been mindless, wearing work. He’d thrown himself into it nevertheless, ignoring altogether his pain and the day’s events and his Guide, who had statements and paperwork of his own to do. But it was a relief to finish it up, to be free to go home and put it all behind him.

Except it wouldn’t be that easy. Not with the smell of death and Incacha’s blood permeating the loft. Not with a Guide at his side who was wounded as deeply as he. Not for this newly appointed Sentinel of the City who didn’t know what the heck he was doing.

Jim pulled up to the curb in front of the loft, adjusting the motion a little to the unfamiliar impound loaner he was driving. The truck had been totalled, too, one more casualty of the day. Other times he might have upset. Now it seemed unimportant.

He turned the motor off, but neither of them made a move to get out of the car, Sandburg seeming to find the dashboard as interesting as he did. “We’re here,” Jim said unnecessarily, if only to break the silence that had grown untenable. Too loud, if that was possible, to his enhanced hearing.

Blair didn’t answer, but he heard the kid’s heartbeat rise another notch. What did Sandburg want from him? He’d listened to his Guide, followed the young man’s advice to get his senses back just as Blair had been pressing him to. Life had been so much simpler when it had just been him, living alone, working alone, owing no one anything...

The Chevy suddenly felt confining, and he shoved the door open impatiently, startling his passenger. Looking up at the dark windows of the loft, home seemed even more uninviting--he wouldn’t be able to breathe in there.

Without looking his partner in the eye, he tossed off, “I’m going for a walk. Don’t wait up.” And then he was out of there, long strides carrying him quickly down the street, away, as fast as he could go without running outright.

He didn’t even try to figure what his Guide was thinking as he disappeared over the hill and into the night.

 

Me versus them. It had always been that way.

In his childhood, it had first been “us,” he and Stephen, united in dealing with a dad who was too busy and a mom who eventually left. Then his dad had begun to set him and Stephen against each other, and the “us” eventually became only him. After college, he’d joined the Army and he was part of an “us” again with his team members, united in a brotherhood incomprehensible to civilians at large. Their Special Ops Team became a single unit living together, training together. Then dying together, anonymously, deep in the wilds of Peru, all but him. Even Incacha had filled that void only partially and fleetingly. He was alone again.

After 18 months in the jungle, returning home had nearly brought culture shock. Confused and isolated, he’d finally found the structure and belonging he needed in the Cascade Police force. One of the ultimate “us versus them” societies. Yet even there he didn’t quite fit, alone amidst the brotherhood of blue. A failed marriage proved what he already began to suspect: there was no “us,” just him. Against a world full of “them.”

And then he discovered he was the Sentinel, and a Sentinel needed a Guide.

If life had taught him anything, it was self-reliance. Asking for help and trusting in it when it was offered was a far greater obstacle than gaining control of his senses. Sometimes he thought it had to be some deity’s sense of humor that the one he needed to place his trust in turned out to be one of the last people he would have thought to turn to.

But a Sentinel needed a Guide. And in time, against his will, Jim Ellison began to believe that.

His Guide. Jim rarely thought of Blair Sandburg as formally as that, but Incacha had recognized effortlessly what existed between him and the graduate student. Sandburg had certainly become a lot more than just the occasional advisor and tagalong that Ellison had originally envisioned. A Sentinel needed a Guide, and Blair was meant to be his.

The changes crept into his vocabulary almost without his notice. An inveterate loner, the “I” became “we.” His plans rested on two schedules instead of one. His home, his protected territory, gained a new occupant who fit in with galling ease. His choices, his needs, his wants, became shared, sometimes secondary, to another’s. He was living for two. And when he’d searched his mind and heart for any objections, any sense of stifling or resentment, he could find none.

“Me” became “us” again.

Funny how that only seemed the first step. His colleagues, once only his co-workers, became those whom he considered friends. Simon, the only one he would have called friend before but who’d known little about him, became someone he trusted with far more than with his life. He’d even begun to mend bridges with his brother, finding that family could mean good things, too. The “us” grew, and the chasm that set “them” apart shrank.

But at the heart of it was the Sentinel of the City, and the Guide who was his companion.

So...what happened if he stopped being a Sentinel?

 

The bay glinted black in the moonless night. Ellison had never thought anything could glint black before he’d gained sentinel eyesight, but it really did, for he could see all the colors that made up the black, reflected from the stars, from the bit of moonlight that struggled through overcast skies, from the city. His city. It had always been his city as a Cascade police officer, but Incacha’s dying benediction brought out a feeling of proprietariness that was both familiar and new. This was his territory now, a responsibility he couldn’t wish away. Doing so had nearly brought disastrous results, and if not for his Guide...

Jim Ellison sank down on the deserted shore, suddenly weary. Sandburg followed him even here, in spirit if not in person.

_What about you? You sure as hell don’t need me around if you don’t have your sentinel abilities._

He’d thought a lot about Sandburg’s words from, what, only the evening before? Again against his will; Jim Ellison didn’t like feeling guilty. But he was ashamed to think of his unworthy response, a flip, “What are you worried about, you’re not gonna complete your dissertation?” He knew better. He knew Blair better. The truth was, he didn’t have an answer to Sandburg’s question. Simon had grown used to the graduate student and accepted him at Jim’s side--all of Major Crimes had, for that matter. The whole temporary observer thing had put down roots, slowly, quietly growing into...

Ellison picked up a flat rock from the ground beside him, turning it absently over in his fingers. Apparently smooth to the normal human eye, he felt the grooves and pinprick holes in its surface. So much more than was obvious from a cursory glance, just like some people. He glanced up at the bay again, calculating angles, then drew his arm back and flicked the stone out, watching it skip along the surface of the water three, five, seven times before it sank, disappearing even from his eyes.

Gone. Like Incacha, and nearly everything else he’d ever cared for in his life. No one had stuck around for long, not his family, not Carolyn, not even Incacha. Nobody but...Blair Sandburg.

Even when his senses were gone, Blair had stayed, despite losing a friend of his own, despite Ellison’s rebuffs, despite having a dying man grab him and pass on to him duties that were far beyond his ken. Blair was his Guide, and would be as long as Jim was Sentinel. But he was also a friend and Jim’s partner, and that apparently had no limits.

The clouds drifted on; Jim watched their white shadows pass across the bay’s surface, and the moon reappeared. And suddenly the Sentinel felt very alone, sitting on the sandy shore.

With night air-stiffened joints, he slowly pushed himself to his feet and set off back toward home. He still wasn’t sure he was ready to face it yet, the silence of his partner and the smell of Incacha’s passing, but he knew now that it was where he belonged.

 

He chose to climb the stairs up to the loft instead of taking the elevator, letting his senses stretch out as he went, cutting through the lingering smells of his neighbors’ cooking, the sounds of snoring and restless sleep, even the feel of the wood grains of the banister under his hand. Up to where a familiar heart beat for his ears alone, too fast to be asleep, waiting for him to come home.

Ellison himself could barely hear the sound of his key turning in the lock, and yet the heartbeat quickened, nervous. He shook his head; his own Guide was dreading his arrival. Things had fallen frighteningly out of whack in just 48 hours, and at the same time they seemed clearer than ever before.

He’d braced himself unconsciously for the odor of blood and violence as the door opened...but there was none. All he smelled was soap, and hints of sandalwood and pine. _What the...?_

The couch cushions were gone, removed by the people from the ME’s office, but the blood that had pooled on the floor beside it, the trail that led from the door to the couch, were gone without a trace that his nose or eyes could pick up. It wasn’t the coroner’s office’s job to clean up crime scenes, which left...

“Sandburg!”

The heartbeat was thumping loud in his ear now, a subtle reminder, too, of what he held important. Sounds of hesitant movement, then the French doors opened and Blair appeared, wary and weary, not moving farther than the doorway, staying several feet away from him as if deliberately keeping his distance. “Yeah, Jim?” Exhaustion colored his voice--the day had been at least as long for him as for Ellison--but it was still that dead tone. Not expecting nor assuming anything, and on guard for whatever he did get.

“Did you do this?” Jim gestured vaguely to the clean living room. Sandburg hated blood...

A nod and, quietly, “I knew it would bother you so I used soap and water and some natural oils to get rid of all of it.” There was the minutest shudder following the words, one Jim wouldn’t have been able to see with normal eyesight. No doubt the clean-up had been in part for Blair’s own peace of mind, too. Ellison wasn’t the only one who was in a hurry to put that day behind him.

“You did a good job,” he said lamely.

An awkward shrug. The ball was sent back to his court.

This was always the part that made him squirm, when the...stuff between them he knew was there, even counted on, had to be dragged out and put into words and shared. It made him uncomfortable...vulnerable. And Jim Ellison hated feeling vulnerable. But there were a few things that superseded even his comfort levels, at least sometimes. Sandburg’s wants weren’t necessarily among them, but his needs--that was completely different. And he had an idea his Guide needed to hear this.

“Uh, Sandburg, listen, about this whole Sentinel thing...”

His roommate could have been a stone statue. Not even Ellison’s eyesight could detect any movement, even breathing.

“I know it’s not about your dissertation, and neither is your being my partner, not anymore. Simon would back me up on that. I, uh, thought you should know that.” A glance down at his hands made him realize he was twisting his baseball cap out of shape, and he forcibly stopped the nervous movement, watching Blair instead.

“Thanks.” Softer now, and while there was still caution in the voice, there was also encouragement.

Jim took a breath and stepped closer so they weren’t talking across half the room. Blair just watched him, impassive. Okay, what else? “It’s just that, well, the whole thing with the guard really threw me, you know? And then Incacha...” He swallowed; that still hurt.

“I know, Jim,” Blair said quietly, his heartrate slowing a little. Strangely enough, that made Ellison calmer, too.

He plowed on, more certain now of his footing. “I’m sorry about Janet, Blair. I think you should go to the funeral. I’ll go, too.”

Sandburg straightened. “You don’t have to--”

“I know that,” he cut in, almost angry again until he caught himself. Jim looked squarely at his roommate. “I know,” he said more earnestly. “I just want to.” And he was aware exactly what he was saying with those words.

A single nod, but something changed, something important. There was a light in Blair’s eyes that had been missing since the day before. The detective had been too preoccupied to really notice it earlier, but its return highlighted its previous absence. Something broken had been mended, or at least patched. And with the knowing smile on his Guide’s face, Jim wondered if the break, the missing words that needed to be said, had really been more in him than in Sandburg all along.

Maybe the point of their partnership was that it didn’t matter.

“We’re gonna have to talk about this Sentinel of the City thing,” Blair slowly said.

Jim nodded. “I know. And the Shaman way. We’ll figure it out.” A binding promise, he knew, but the idea wasn’t as confining as it once would have been.

Sandburg understood, like he always seemed to, and grinned at him with familiar enthusiasm. “Yeah. I have some books--” A yawn got in the way.

“Tomorrow, Chief.” Jim cuffed the anthropologist lightly on the side of the head with tolerant affection, trying not to smile. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Blair said simply. “In the morning.” He yawned again. _“Late_ morning.”

“Sandburg, go to bed.” He was tired, too, the long day beginning to crash down on him.

Another contented grin and a light touch on his arm, then Blair disappeared into his room. Jim stared after him a moment, then gave a tired snort and shook his head, turning toward the stairs to his own bedroom. At the top, he turned briefly to look at the cushionless couch. The grief wasn’t gone, but he wouldn’t be dealing with it alone. Incacha’s death had taught him at least one valuable lesson.    

Sentinel and Guide, or simply friends, what affected one affected both. It was frightening and amazing at the same time, thinking “us” after a lifetime of just “me.” But Jim Ellison was silently grateful for the company.

The Sentinel went to bed, his nearby Guide and partner’s quiet breathing easing him into sleep.

The End


End file.
